And through vast gardens, glowing with strange flowers,

Such as no April kindled into bloom

Among the valleys of my native hills.

We came unto a court of many fountains,

Where, leaping off their jaded mules,

Our captors loosed the thongs that held us,

But left our wrists still bound.

And one with great clay pitchers came,

And over our hot bodies, travel-stained,

Poured out cool, cleansing waters

In a gurgling, crystal stream,

And flung coarse robes of indigo

About our naked shoulders.

And here we left behind us

The maidens and the younger boys,

And passing through a gateway,

Came out upon a busy wharf,

Where, southward, midway through the city,

The broad Euphrates flows,

His dark flood thronged with merchant-dhows,

 Prev. P 38/59 next